Hua Hin Jazz Festival 2006

Coltrane's compositions are exceptionally powerful and diverse in character, and they have greatly influenced my own work through their unique melodies and harmonies. I imagine that if Coltrane had had the opportunity to experience Bulgarian folk music—which strongly influenced Michael Brecker's later work—in the same way that Indian music influenced his own work, he would have created even more unique compositions and perhaps developed an even more distinctive style of playing the tenor saxophone.

Despite his short life, Coltrane left behind a great musical legacy that set a new direction for contemporary music and continues to inspire so many musicians and artists to this day. His message is beauty, love, and divinity!

Amina Figarova, piano (Azerbaijan)

Some of the most important musical lessons in my life have come through conversations rather than concerts. One of those conversations was with the late, great Toots Thielemans.

My husband is Belgian, and he knew Toots quite well. About twenty-five years ago, I was performing at a festival with my sextet, and Toots was there with his quartet. One evening, the festival invited all the performing artists to dinner at a beautiful restaurant. By chance, I found myself sitting next to Toots.

We started talking about music—about the records that had inspired us, the musicians who had changed us, and those moments when something you hear suddenly opens a door you didn't know was there.

At some point, Toots began telling me about a period in his life when he had felt stuck. Toots was born in 1922, and in the early 1960s, when he was in his forties, he had already developed such a distinctive musical language that he was known around the world. But he told me that, despite all of that, he had become frustrated with himself. He felt that he was always playing the same language, the same vocabulary, and he had become tired of hearing himself repeat it. He felt stuck in his improvisation.

Then he heard John Coltrane's solo on Some Day My Prince Will Come.

Something happened.

Toots told me that he transcribed the solo, learned it by heart, and then played along with Coltrane over and over again. For him, that solo contained something he had been searching for. It represented what modern jazz meant to him—freedom, intensity, direction, and the possibility of going somewhere he hadn't been before.

He told me that learning that solo changed his playing significantly. It helped him become more free.

I never forgot that conversation.

When I returned home from our tour, I decided to do the same thing. I transcribed that particular Coltrane solo and learned it. It became a turning point for me as well, opening the door to a deeper exploration of Coltrane's music.

And the more I listened to that recording, the more fascinating the story behind it became. Some Day My Prince Will Come, recorded in 1961, came at an unusual moment in Miles Davis's musical life. John Coltrane was no longer touring with Miles's band; Hank Mobley had taken his place. Yet Coltrane was still invited into the studio for this recording, appearing on a few tracks.

There is something almost mysterious about the way the session unfolds. On the title track, Miles plays the melody, and after he has played the head out, Coltrane enters. It feels almost like Coltrane is arriving from another world—suddenly bringing a completely different energy and language into the music.

The song itself is already an unlikely vehicle for this kind of jazz. Originally written for Walt Disney's 1937 Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs, Some Day My Prince Will Come is an innocent, wide-eyed love song. But in Miles's hands, it becomes something altogether different.

Paul Chambers's throbbing bass and Jimmy Cobb's cymbal work create an opening vamp that builds a quiet tension. Then, almost at exactly the right moment, the music opens into waltz time and Miles enters with the melody—delicate, elegant, and just a little sly. There is innocence in the tune, but also something sensual underneath it.

Miles's solo is lyrical and rhythmically masterful. Ira Gitler described it in the original liner notes as "sweet and sour," and that seems exactly right.

Then there is Hank Mobley, relaxed and lyrical, followed by Coltrane, whose improvisation feels more intense, searching, and cerebral. Hearing the two saxophonists on the same track is extraordinary—two very different musical personalities, meeting for a brief moment in the studio. It was a meeting that could only happen once. And it never happened again.

But for me, the most important part of that recording is not only the history of Miles, Coltrane, or the remarkable musicians on the session.

It is the memory of sitting next to Toots Thielemans at that dinner, listening to him talk about the moment when John Coltrane changed the way he heard himself.

Years later, I still think about that conversation.

A great musician told me about another great musician who had helped him find freedom. And then, in a small way, he passed that freedom on to me.

David Lyttle, drums (Northern Ireland)

When I think of the giants I'm always brought back to my earliest experiences of jazz. I remember driving around in my Ford Fiesta listening to cassettes I'd recorded, Trane's solos on Kind of Blue, Blue Train and later A Love Supreme taking my intrigued mind to new places.

Even with inexperienced ears I recognized his incredible modes of intensity and sensitivity, his distinct tone and his commanding style. After a few notes, or even one long note, you know it's John Coltrane, more so than many of the greats. When I hear Trane now and reflect on his greatness, I still think of these simple observations, knowing that they are the qualities of the giants and the aspirations of us mortals.

Yacoub Abu Ghosh, bass guitar (Jordan)

John Coltrane's music played a profound role in helping me find freedom in my own musical expression. Coming from a musical tradition where modal music is at the very heart of Arabic music, his approach to modes opened up a whole new way of thinking for me. He inspired me to search for new ways of approaching our own musical language and gave me the freedom to look at it from different perspectives, whether melodically, harmonically or rhythmically.

More importantly, he taught me that true musical freedom does not come from abandoning knowledge and tradition, but from knowing them deeply enough to be able to move beyond their expected boundaries. That idea has stayed with me throughout my life as a musician.

My two favourite Coltrane albums are A Love Supreme and My Favorite Things. I have probably played "My Favorite Things" in one form or another with almost every musical outfit I have founded or been part of. There is something endlessly liberating about the way Coltrane takes a familiar melody and uses it as a starting point for exploration rather than a limitation. That, for me, is one of the most enduring lessons of Coltrane: knowing the language deeply, then finding your own voice within it, and eventually discovering places the language itself had not yet taken you.

Jerry (Burundi)

I was born in Burundi, a country where, at the time, music schools were almost non-existent. So I learned music in another way: by listening. I searched through records and cassette tapes, discovering many great jazz musicians, and among them was John Coltrane.

Coltrane accompanied me throughout my musical journey like an invisible teacher. In many ways, he became one of my mentors, guiding me along this path of jazz. I discovered his music while surrounded by the sounds of Burundi—the sounds of nature, the voices of everyday life, and the rhythmic pounding of women preparing cassava in the evening.

Somehow, Coltrane's sound found its place among all those sounds. His music spoke to me, guided me, and helped shape the musician I became. Even without ever meeting him, I felt that I was learning from him.

That is the extraordinary legacy of John Coltrane: his voice continues to travel across generations, cultures and continents, reaching musicians in places he may never have imagined.

His was

the eye

of a solid

sender

blues deeper than

the sound

of water

that spiritual sound

-the high

holy way.

An eye

(always an eye)

tender

but fierce

piercing

all seeing.

Hooded//lidded//shrew-shrew.

It was Arkansas, 20 acres

or more. In the holiness flame

of summer. Cutting junk up

with the gospel plough.

Five days sick

to kick it solid,

with a growl, couldn't tap

the horn.

Could not puncture the rim of it.

Five days thick

with spit to split the grip of it.

To punch through fever

to emerge reborn

like newborn wood.

Those Saturdays,

night roll of darker fields,

where those hymns

swayed across the land

from little churches

hid in bush.

Where the members sung



la da la da la da la

da da

la da la da la da

da da

whirling in the firmament of the spirit

It is the eye,

which listens.

Oh Dewey, the ocular.

Say-say, play what you may.

—he said, "Just play.

Call it anything."

Call it the bliss of it.

The times it was when black

was our name

and we were double-conscious,

ferociously black and real.

Black being

nothing but skin but

I was not

my skin.

1678 Broadway,

New York City,

1959

the new blues

came tumbling down.

The lip split, the blood

of Davis the third.

Press-wise

to the first, second and third valves.

Hey Dewey, the three

after the sun, the spirit lash,

the holy roll—the ocular.

I saw an angel and the devil

sat between two

cold priests, loas

of hidden frequencies,

I saw sour mountains of rotting

rice and red beans, saw secret colours.

But we had no power at all.

So we spread out our trinkets

our hot shirts, our very souls,

hip shake and moan, slid sideways,

moved

aloof like bop/in which the synapse

fluctuates with its concurrent

principle

while blowing a high C.

In Bird thereof, the high priest

of our tribe.

To follow the line he leads

is to get lost, to blush.

We were brutalised, our teeth

cut in half. Beat bloodied

even as our names

burned in lights above * Birdland *

—MILES —MILES—

wringing hot heat.

It were the eyes

that stayed black and bright,

stayed hard and tactical

and unafraid.

Them was those

knots and levers

of our rage.

Of maggots,

of brain coral — of foam.

Vampiric//light can't touch

his eyes.

The kink of him.

That eyeball beneath the rim

beckoning.

And inside was dim lit, a mess

of sheep skin jackets

and knee high boots, waistcoats

in leather, suits never worn in daylight.

We had entered the house of the demon, the snake,

The prince and poet of darkness under islands,

standing there smiling

with cock in hand.

New York City. 1979.

Miles

thereafter

emerging

as flame

as arcturus the star

as any vision//parallax rubric

slick

as a brokedick dog.

Sharp as

the grinning

edge of

a beloved

blade.